


Lean On Me

by AgentStannerShipper



Series: Puzzle Pieces [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Getting Together, Greg Lestrade is not an idiot, M/M, Mentions of Cannon Character Death, Mycroft is sad and I'm not okay, Sherlock Series 4 Spoilers, but its very subtle and you might miss it, mentions of eating disorders, mentions of the Holmes family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-17 23:30:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9351266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentStannerShipper/pseuds/AgentStannerShipper
Summary: Mycroft is a mess after the fiasco with Eurus. Greg just wants to help.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Lean On Me by Bill Withers. Not Brit-picked, so let me know if there are any errors. This is my first fanfic in a while, so be gentle.

Greg Lestrade had long since gotten used to the Holmes brothers surprising him. True, Sherlock was, to some degree, predictable, but Greg didn’t pretend to be any more than he was, and he knew that attempting to keep up with the genius that Sherlock and Mycroft shared was a bit beyond his capacity. He followed closely behind them, encouraged them where he could, and, on occasion, played a bit dumb to prompt them along, but he had long since gotten used to the simple fact that the Holmes brother always had, and always would, surprise him.

This was definitely a surprise.

Lestrade let himself into Mycroft’s house with a key Sherlock had slipped into his pocket. Grand was a good word for the house, but that was expected. His brief turn through the kitchen revealed an empty fridge, confirming his worry that Mycroft wasn’t eating properly again, and it took Greg a little longer than he would have liked to actually locate the man in question.

He was in what Greg guessed was his office, staring out the window with his back to the room. He had a half-smoked cigarette in one hand, and a lightly smoking ashtray on the desk, littered with cigarette butts, indicated that it was far from his first of the day. Instead of the usual three-piece suit that Greg was accustomed to seeing him in, Mycroft was wearing a pair of tracksuit bottoms and a white t-shirt. He had a distinctly rumpled look to him, and something in Greg’s chest twisted painfully.

“Detective Inspector,” Mycroft said, not turning away from the window. “What an unexpected surprise.”

Greg floundered in the doorway for a moment before he collected himself and stepped carefully into the room. “Sherlock asked me to keep an eye on you,” he said. “He’s worried about you, you know.”

“Interesting.” Mycroft blew out another puff of smoke. “How the tables have been turned.”

“I’m sorry?”

Mycroft turned to face Greg and raised an eyebrow. “The liar has been exposed, and now it is the little brother’s turn to make sure the elder doesn’t ruin his life,” he said, like it should have been obvious. As an afterthought, he tacked on, “what little there is left of it.”

Greg took another few steps forward, placing his hands on the desk just for something to do with them. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m afraid I rather made a mess of things.” Mycroft laughed softly without a trace of humor. “It’s strange, really. I spent so long thinking I was the smartest one in the room, only to realize I’m just one of the idiots who’s too stupid to know he’s a moron.”

“You’re not an idiot, Mycroft,” Greg said in disbelief. “Where is this coming from?”

“I’m a failure as a son and a failure as a human being.” Mycroft made no indication that he’d heard Greg. He shook his head and extinguished the cigarette, sending fresh curls of smoke up from the ashtray. “My behavior is inexcusable. Sherlock and John witnessed it firsthand.” He sighed, shuddered, “Mummy was right. I’m not the clever one. I’m just a liar.”

“Mycroft,” Greg said, trying to keep the worry from sinking too deeply into his voice. He leaned forward, wondering if circling the desk to be closer to the other man was a bad idea. “You did what you thought was right. Your sister…Eurus killed someone. She tried to kill your whole family. Locking her away was the only choice.”

“But I didn’t have to lie about it,” Mycroft spat. “That’s all I do, really. I lied to my parents, to my brother, to everyone. I lie and I lie and I lie and I can’t seem to stop.”

“You thought you were being kind,” Greg said, and Mycroft startled slightly. He continued, “Maybe you made a mistake. Maybe you didn’t. But you did what you thought was best, and that counts for a lot.”

“I couldn’t even face my mistakes,” Mycroft murmured. “I behaved like a frightened child.”

“You were scared. It happens to the best of us.”

Mycroft looked away, the corner of his mouth twitching, but he didn’t respond. Throwing caution to the winds, Greg gave in and rounded the desk. As he did so, he noticed the envelop resting on it. He paused and picked it up, turning it over in his hands. “What’s this?”

“My letter of resignation,” Mycroft responded with hardly a glance at what Greg was holding.

“Resignation?” Greg repeated. “Why on earth are you resigning?”

“I really think it best if the amount of power I currently wield isn’t in the hands of a fool.”

Greg put the letter down. “That’s all the more reason you should stay,” he insisted. The worry he’d felt when he entered the room had increased tenfold. “You’re brilliant, Mycroft. Christ, I can’t think of anyone I’d trust more than you.”

“Then you’re more of a fool than I am.” Mycroft turned, his gaze drilling into Greg, who felt rooted to the spot. “Tell me, Gregory, what sort of person locks his own sister away and then tells his parents she died? What sort of person lies to his brother and convinces him that they never had a sister in the first place, that he had a dog instead of a best friend? What sort of person allows others to die because he’s too scared to do the right thing? And I did, Gregory, I let people die because I was terrified, and I have to live with that every day for the rest of my life. I have to live with the fact that I’m as good as a murderer. What do you have to say to that?”

“I love you.”

Mycroft froze, and Greg cursed himself for opening his mouth at all. He didn’t know where the words had come from…well that wasn’t strictly true. He knew exactly where they had come from, but he had planned on never saying them aloud, ever. Mycroft, for his part, was doing an excellent job of proving he and Sherlock were related. They made the exact same face when they were shocked. Greg was fairly certain Mycroft wasn’t blinking.

The silence stretched over several tense seconds, and Greg wondered if he should say something to break it, when Mycroft said, his voice barely above a whisper, “What did you say?”

Greg swallowed hard. “I…I said that I, um.” He scratched the back of his head, studying the floor. It was hardwood, a nice dark color, and covered by an intricate rug. After a bit of stuttering he managed, “I love you. I said that I loved you.”

A series of expressions crossed Mycroft’s face before it finally landed on puzzled. “You love me,” he repeated slowly.

“Um, yeah,” Greg responded. “Yeah, I do.” He couldn’t quite tell what Mycroft was thinking, and he rushed out, “It’s alright, really, if you don’t feel the same way. I kind of expect that you don’t. It’s just…well, you’re a good-looking bloke and you’re really clever and I’ve kind of fancied you for a while, and then there was all that shit that went down between Sherlock and John and we started talking more and I kind of realized that I was, well, in love with you, and I knew that you didn’t see me like that, not that I blame you, ‘cause you’re completely out of my league and…I’m going to stop talking now.” He flushed, wanting to sink into the carpet and drown in the pattern of twisting vines.

Mycroft stayed quiet, and after a few moments Greg chanced looking up at him. His expression remained unreadable. “Right,” Greg said, taking a few steps back, “I’m just going to…go.”

He was nearly to the door when Mycroft said, “Wait.” Greg froze, and very slowly turned on his heel to face the elder Holmes brother. Mycroft moved around the desk, and Greg trembled in place as Mycroft stopped barely a foot away from him. He wondered, briefly, if he was going to be dragged away by secret servicemen for daring to proposition the British Government.

When Mycroft finally spoke, it was only to ask, “Why?”

“Why…what?”

“Why do you love me?” Mycroft expanded the question. “I’ve been told, numerous times by many different people, that I’m about as unlovable as it is possible for a person to be. I’m cold, secretive, pompous, and those as just a few of my undesirable qualities. If I had all day to tell you exactly why I am impossible to love, I wouldn’t even have time to begin on the ways I am physically unattractive.”

Greg leaned back on his heels and frowned. He’d known, without Sherlock telling him, that Mycroft wasn’t as strong or as put together as he intentionally led people to believe, but he hadn’t known quite how deep Mycroft’s insecurities extended. He thought for a moment, putting his thoughts in order before he responded, “Why do I love you? I love you because, despite that cold façade you put up, you care deeply about your brother. I love you because when you keep secrets, you do it because you want to protect people.” He laughed, “I love you because you’re fucking ridiculous sometimes, with your umbrella and your black cars and your kidnapping people instead of texting them.” Feeling bold, he took a step closer to Mycroft, and felt rewarded when the other man didn’t step back. “I love you,” he whispered, “because of that day in the rain, two years ago. It was like something out of some romance film and I never forgot about it.” Greg searched Mycroft’s face, and at this distance, he could see that Mycroft was scared, but he wasn’t moving away. Slowly, so Mycroft could see what he was doing and giving him plenty of time to stop him, Greg brought one hand up to cup Mycroft’s face gently. He leaned in and pressed a careful kiss to Mycroft’s lips. He tasted like cigarette smoke, and Greg wondered if it was his old addiction flaring up again, or something new.

When he pulled away, Mycroft’s eyes were closed. He was still as a statue, and Greg couldn’t help but whisper, “Christ, you’re gorgeous.”

Mycroft’s eyes snapped open, and before Greg could react, he was being dragged into another kiss. He kissed back, almost bruisingly, wanting to let Mycroft know without words that he was here, that Greg wasn’t going anywhere.

“I’m not an easy man to be with,” Mycroft warned him when they finally broke apart. “I can be distant, my job demands secrecy, and I don’t always listen when I should.”

“I know,” Greg responded, grinning like a fool. “I know it’s not going to be easy. But, I think, it’ll be worth it. Because I’ll have you.”

“Alright then,” Mycroft nodded. He hesitated, and Greg used the opportunity to kiss him again.


End file.
